


Pretty Guy

by Curlylinguist



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Activist Dan Howell, Alternate Universe, First Meetings, Fluff, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Pride, Strangers to Lovers, Writer Phil Lester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29886528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlylinguist/pseuds/Curlylinguist
Summary: Drinking as a coping mechanism is not Phil’s usual style, but then, he reasons, neither is spontaneously tagging along on an entirely unplanned night out with a bunch of strangers after the bizarre high of a successful publishing meeting. And all just because a pretty boy asked him to.Or, Phil stumbles across a Pride rally and a certain curly-haired queer activist catches his eye.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 38
Kudos: 81





	Pretty Guy

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Heather (@strawberry-sunflower) for betaing this for me, as well as for being the world's best cheerleader <3
> 
> If you're looking for some extremely self-indulgent nonsense with a side of gay pride and activism then you've absolutely come to the right place. I had wanted to post this a week ago for LGBTQ+ History month but life got slightly in the way lol.
> 
> I used this prompt for inspo, and somehow here we are 7k later. Prompt: Unexpectedly deep conversations, with a person whose name you don’t know

The meeting had gone surprisingly well, _extremely_ well even, Phil thinks to himself as he leaves his publisher's office with a spring in his step, throwing a friendly wave over his shoulder to the receptionist. He skips down the old Victorian style steps to join the busy London street below, trying to hide his gleeful grin in his scarf so as not to look like a total weirdo. Not that the passersby seem to spare even the slightest glance in his direction. You could always count on Londoners to give the least possible amount of shits about any human other than themselves. 

Usually, Phil quite likes the anonymity of the big city, the constant hustle and bustle of watching the world pass him by when he himself could luxuriate in the freedom of not having anything to do or anywhere in particular to be. Sometimes it inspires him, and motivates him to keep working hard knowing that so many others are attacking their days with such singular minded focus. But today, he just wants to shout from every rooftop and every street corner about how excited he is. Since that urge goes against every fibre of his socially anxious being, he opts for the next best thing instead and pulls out his phone.

“Phil!” His Mum picks up on the third ring, “how did it go, darling?” 

He can’t possibly hold back the grin now. 

“They loved the revisions, Mum. Like, they really loved them.” He’s unable to stop himself letting out a loud squeal of delight down the phone, which, predictably, thankfully, is entirely ignored by the Londoners on the street around him. 

“Of course they did, love, we knew they would.” In the background, Phil can hear his father loudly agreeing. 

“They even started talking about sequels, Mum! And the drafts for the cover are coming in soon. I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

“Oh Phil, that’s just fantastic news! We’re so proud of you!” Phil can hear the emotion and pride in her tone even down the phone, and it warms him to his core. 

“Thanks, Mum. Tell Dad thanks too. I couldn’t have done any of it without you two.”

“Only four months to go now,” she reminds him. 

“I know!” He squeals down the phone at her again. “I’m going to be a published author.”

“You’d better not forget your old Mum and Dad once you’re rich and famous you know, child.”

“Come on, it’s hardly going to be a best-seller. It’s just that with every meeting I have it’s really starting to feel real now.”

“I know, love. We’re so happy and excited for this next stage in your life.” 

“Thanks, Mum.”

“Anyway, love, thanks for giving us a ring as soon as you got out, but I won’t keep you now, you’ll only end up walking into the traffic and getting yourself run over with all that excitement.” 

“I wish you didn’t know me so well sometimes.” He laughs, still giddy. 

“Give us a proper ring and tell us every word they said once you’re home, yes?”

“Alright, I’ll call you later. Love you!”

“Love you too, darling.” 

He hangs up, grinning uncontrollably from ear to ear at his parents’ praise. He takes a couple of deep breaths in a vague attempt at composing himself, but he just can’t help it, his brain is floating way off into the clouds already, book two practically writing itself in his head. He continues on blindly down the street, following the roads but paying very little mind as to where his feet are taking him. Ever the homebody, he doesn’t usually venture this far south of the Thames and he finds himself so distracted that it takes him several wrong turns before he realises that he’s walked completely past the nearest tube station. 

He’s undeterred though. It’s a bright, if cold, February afternoon and he’s enjoying using up his remaining meeting-adrenaline-fueled energy. As far as he’s concerned, the less time spent vibrating with excitement to the point that he feels sick on the hour-long tube ride home, the better. Besides, he’s walking in the right general direction, and it’s nice to explore other areas of the city he’s called home for the best part of a decade. 

He pauses to quickly whip out his phone again and jot down a couple of sentence starters and some brief notes to type up later, knowing he’ll only forget them completely by the time he gets home. With a fresh grin, he swipes away the texts from his mum reiterating his parents’ pride and continues typing furiously.

Rounding a corner, he’s pulled abruptly from his musings firmly back down to earth and into a world suddenly filled with vibrant colour by a loud voice nearby.

“We’re here, we’re queer, we’re filled with existential fear: and what’re we gonna do about it?!”

Interest piqued, Phil turns his head towards the source of the voice, peering easily over the bustling crowd thanks to his advanced height. The speaker is stood on a raised platform calling out across the small crowd through a megaphone, ranked by a few rainbow clad supporters cheering him on, though the speaker himself is dressed entirely in simple black from head to toe. There are small stalls up and down the street, Phil notices, all selling colourful memorabilia from bright t-shirts with funky slogans, to stripey woolen jumpers and scarves, to books on what appears to be queer theory upon closer examination as he wanders past, deeper into the throng. He realises he must’ve stumbled across some sort of pride rally purely by accident, and sure enough, as he turns to look at the next stall, he sees the slogan ‘LGBTQ+ HISTORY MONTH’ emblazoned across a large cloth banner just beyond. His smile widens.

His own books could be on sale here one day, he thinks to himself wildly. Perhaps he could even have his own little book launch somewhere like this. He pulls up his Notes app again to quickly type out a reminder to ask his publisher about it at their next meeting. 

Pocketing his phone, he wanders closer, pulling his denim jacket more tightly around himself to protect against the sudden chill of the February air, cursing his decision not to dress more appropriately for a walk through London in winter. Sunny winter days were sneakily deceptive. 

He nears the mock-up stage; the crowd here is slightly thicker, standing round to listen more attentively to the speaker, who has put down the megaphone in favour of speaking to the group more intimately. Curious, Phil squeezes his way through to listen properly.

“In creating our future, we have to claim our past. We must take pride in our achievements, both on an individual and collective level, whether you’re a newcomer to the community taking the first steps to come out to your loved ones, hyping yourself up to brave this bloody freezing winter day and come to your first proper pride event, or whether you’re a cynical old queen, who’s sick of listening to me rabbiting on again about the same old shit-”

There are some laughs from the small crowd around him. 

“We love you, sweetie!” Someone calls out. Phil tries to hide his smile. He loves this. London is so vast and there are always too many events going on all over the city with its ten million strong inhabitants to keep up with. Phil has his own gaggle of gay pals, his own favoured gay bars and queer spaces, yet whenever he happens across something new, he always feels such an immediate sense of belonging and community. These are his people, despite being complete strangers.

Without quite realising how he had got there, Phil finds himself right at the front of the crowd, practically face-to-face with the speaker. Phil’s breath catches in his throat as he looks up at him properly for the first time. Fuck, he’s _pretty_. All warm honey eyes and soft brown curls framing his face as he laughs along with the group - clearly a natural public speaker - showing off his deep dimples. He has legs that seem to go on for days, clad in tight black skinny jeans, small rips exposing hints of pale thigh despite the February cold. _Fuck_.

Phil knows he must be staring, eyes wide and teeth digging into his bottom lip, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. Not when the most beautiful man he has ever laid eyes on is standing right in front of him. 

He lets his voice wash over him, deep and calming, tuning out almost entirely of what he’s saying as his brain goes into freefall, a revolving mantra of _“wow, boy pretty”_ bouncing around the empty inside of his head, helplessly watching mental pictures flash before his eyes on fast-forward: dinner dates ending in sweet, lingering kisses, wedding bells ringing as they clasp hands, corgis running rampage round a garden, fingers interlinked with his, surrounded by peels of laughter and dimples and warm eyes and soft curls... 

Jesus Christ. He seriously needs to stop binge-watching every cheesy romcom ever made on Netflix and get a life.

Distantly, muted through all the cotton wool enveloping his brain, he hears a smattering of applause, a series of cheerful “Thank yous!”, before he becomes aware of the crowd dispersing all around him. Unconsciously, he drifts over to the side of the stage, drawn towards the man jumping off it, as though pulled by a magnet. Phil hovers for a moment, his own mouth dry as he watches the man take a swig of water. He’s about to turn away and internally berate himself for being such a creepy stalker, when the man catches his eye over the top of his water bottle and turns to him with a shy, expectant smile.

“Hello.” Phil says blankly, panicking.

“Hi there,” the man returns, dimples deepening. There’s a momentary awkward pause as Phil tries to pull his brain out of the taffy it seems to have fallen into. The man’s smile starts to fade.

“Er, can I help you with something?” he asks, confusion clear in his tone.

“Oh no, no! Sorry, I’m just generally a bit of an awkward human. And nervous,” he admits, “about speaking to you. That was a really, um, a really good speech.” It sounds vaguely pathetic even to his own ears.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“I really liked how you linked the idea of reclaiming our pasts and using it as a motivator for shaping the future,” he hurries to elaborate, “it was really inspiring.”

“Thanks,” the stranger replies again, sounding genuinely touched this time. “It’s something that’s really close to my heart; making a better future for the next generation and all that shit. So they don’t have to go through what I did as a kid, you know.”

“What did you go through as a kid?” Phil says, then immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, please don’t answer that, that’s such an inappropriate thing for me to ask when we’ve literally only just met. I’ve just got no filter, because you’re so pretty!” He realises what he just said and feels his cheeks turn warm. “Wait, I mean-”

The stranger collapses into loud, delighted peels of laughter. Not in a malicious way, he seems genuinely pleased, eyes alight with pure glee. Phil thinks it’s the best laugh he’s ever heard. He can’t help but giggle along too, the laughter infectious despite his embarrassment.

“I’m really sorry,” Phil says once they’ve both calmed down, “I really hope you’re not offended.”

“Offended? Oh my god, of course not, this fit guy comes up to me and tells me he thinks I’m pretty? And he likes my work, and wants to actually listen to me talk about my trauma? Can’t find that on Grindr, that’s for sure!” He laughs again, loud and unashamed. 

Phil cannot believe his luck. Not only is this guy drop-dead gorgeous, intelligent and witty - literally perfection personified in Phil’s opinion - but he thinks Phil’s fit too? 

“No, seriously though,” the guy continues, “I appreciate the directness, it’s refreshing. Though you might want to buy me a drink first, before we get into the childhood trauma.” 

Phil takes a deep breath. _Go for it!_ A brave voice inside his head urges him. “I was just trying to work up the courage to ask you that, actually. I wanted to be all suave and debonair and sweep you off your feet, but it looks like that strategy’s gone straight out the window.”

“There’s nothing straight about that strategy, mate.”

Phil laughs, “Oh yeah, there’s nothing straight about me fullstop really.”

The stranger looks over at him curiously. “You’re not around from here, are you? I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” 

“Yeah, I’m not from this part of London, I just came here for a meeting with my publisher and stumbled across this whole thing completely by accident! I’m really glad I did though.”

“I’m glad you did too.” The smile is back, along with Phil’s favourite dimples. “Hang on, your publisher? Are you like a writer or something?”

“Well, I will be soon, I guess,” Phil admits shyly, looking at the ground. “I’ve just had my first book accepted for publication.”

“Oh my god, congratulations! That’s absolutely huge, what the fuck!”

“Thank you,” Phil looks up at him shyly, feeling his cheeks heat up at the praise. “I’ve been trying to get published for ages, I’m really excited. It’s a queer sci-fi thriller type novel, so kind of niche.” 

“Are you kidding me, that sounds incredible! That would’ve meant the world to me at 15. I mean, to be honest, I’d love to read something like that now too, but that’s huge in terms of representation for queer teens, seeing people like them in all genres.”

“Yeah, exactly! That was what inspired me to write it in the first place. All I really had for representation growing up was Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” he laughs.

“Peak gay culture, to be fair. Were you even a 90s gay kid unless David Boreanaz sparked your sexuality crisis? Truly iconic.” The man grins at him. 

Phil laughs, “Nah, it was Spike all the way for me.” 

“Oh my god, I hope your taste in men has improved since then.” 

“Must’ve done, otherwise I wouldn’t be trying to chat _you_ up.” Phil giggles, surprising himself with his own boldness. He’s rewarded with the loveliest little disbelieving laugh from the stranger, watches as the flush on his cheeks deepen, his bright eyes locked on Phil’s. Phil can’t get enough. He’s never fallen so fast for anyone in his life. And he doesn’t even know this guy’s name.

“Ooh, he’s got lines!” The stranger quips. 

Before Phil can respond with something too cheesy or accidentally crass and ruin his surprisingly smooth streak, a woman with bright red quiffed hair and shaved sides comes up behind Phil’s unfairly pretty stranger and claps him hard on the back.

“Hey mate,” she gestures inside the building behind the three of them, “the talk’s about to start, are you coming? We saved you a space up front.”

“Oh, yeah, of course, Mags!” Pretty boy replies, then glances back at Phil, hesitating. “Just gimme a second, I’ll be right with you.” 

The woman looks between the two of them with a knowing smirk. “Sure thing, bud, whatever. Don’t be too long though, it starts in five!”

She heads back inside with a wave of her hand, chunky Doc Martins thumping away on the pavement.

Phil turns back to the stranger, mouth suddenly dry. 

“What-” 

He starts, at the same time as the stranger says, “are you-”

They smile at each other.

“Sorry, you go.” Phil says gesturing with an erratic hand. He hadn’t realised how close they’re standing and accidentally hits the stranger right on the chest. He huffs out a breathless laugh. It’s definitely a fond sound, Phil thinks, purposefully ignoring the fact that his glasses seem to have gained a rather rose-coloured tint in the past fifteen minutes that he’s spent ogling this man. “Sorry,” he murmurs again, more quietly this time.

“Don’t be,” the stranger says quickly, matching his tone, “I mean- Oh, I don’t know what I mean. Look, I hope this isn’t too direct, but are you free? Like, now, I mean. Do you fancy coming to this talk on queer youth with me? And my friends, I guess. They’re really nice though, don’t worry! When they hear you’re writing a gay book they’ll love you on sight! It’s just, you seem like a really cool guy, and I-”

Phil takes pity on him. “OK, yeah, sure! I’d love to come.” 

Pretty Guy smiles at him, wide and relieved, pink tingeing his cheeks. “Great!” He says. “That’s- that’s great.”

Phil smiles back at him, catches him in the act as his gaze darts from Phil’s eyes to his mouth. Phil can’t help but mimic the action himself.

“Oh shit, we should go if we want to catch the start!” The stranger breaks them out of their trance with a quick glance down at his watch. He grabs Phil by the wrist and tugs him along in the opposite direction, long legs striding quickly towards the building in front of them. Phil is absolutely _not_ thinking about how Pretty Guy’s hands are so big they completely envelop Phil’s entire wrist with ease. He’s not thinking about it _at all_. 

They hurry through the shabby entrance hall of the building, weaving between grey concrete pillars as the man guides Phil along after him. They round the corner and before Phil knows what’s happening, they slip through a side door and into a large auditorium. The colours hit Phil immediately, like an assault to his eyes, causing him to blink furiously against the brightness after the dark and dingey corridor. A bright rainbow spectrum covers every inch of the available walls and then some. Loud slogans plastered on banners hang down from the ceiling, pride flags and rainbows adorn every wall. There’s a huge photo collage mounted on a giant easel in pride of place on the centre of the stage. 

“This is brilliant!” He exclaims loudly over the noise of the eclectic crowd surrounding them. Pretty Guy looks back at him and smiles. 

“It’s the best. They do an amazing job with the decorations every time.” 

With a light tug on Phil’s hand, he leads him to the second row from the front where a small group are waving them over, two seats unoccupied next to them.

“We thought you two might want that second seat!” Laughs Mags, yanking a couple of bags out of their way as they sit down. “Mind you, I’m sure you’d have been happy sitting on his lap, Heart Eyes Howell.” She digs her elbow into Pretty Guy’s side, as their friends join in the good natured teasing with laughter.

“Mags, shut up,” Pretty Guy groans, “you’re the actual worst.”

Phil ponders the nickname - _Howl? Howard?_ \- Then decides that Heart Eyes is clearly the most important part of that statement. God, why is Phil the most awkward human ever to exist? How hard is it to ask a stranger his name at an appropriate moment?

“Go on then,” she continues, unperturbed, “introduce us all to your new _friend_.” She places the emphasis carefully and Pretty Guy rolls his eyes at her. Phil grins. 

“Well-” he starts, but is immediately cut off by thunderous applause all around them, as the speaker takes to the stage.

It’s a good talk, Phil thinks, he’s sure it would be brilliant were he to give it his full attention. He feels bad, but he can’t help but be distracted when Pretty Guy is squished up right next to him in the cosy auditorium, shitty plastic chairs packed tightly together meaning that long, lanky men like Phil and his companion aren’t given much leg room to play with. He’s pressed up against Pretty Guy practically from hip to ankle, from shoulder to wrist, and every time either of them shuffles in their seat even slightly, their pinkies brush gently on the thin armrests. Every time Phil risks a glance over at him, Pretty Guy is staring steadfastly ahead, clearly enthralled with the talk and hanging eagerly on the speaker’s every word as though mentally talking notes. 

Phil is back to wondering about him. He wishes he’d asked his name earlier, it seems so embarrassingly late now to ask after all this. What if the guy just assumes that Phil already knew his name from listening to him speak at the rally. Did he mention it then? Phil can’t remember at all, having spent the vast majority of that speech ogling the man rather than taking in any of what he said. Even if that were the case though, the man still doesn’t know Phil’s name! Surely he wants to know, if he’s taken the trouble of inviting him to his talk with his friends; he practically held his hand on the way here for Christ’s sake! 

At that moment, almost as though he can hear Phil’s anxious thinking out loud, the stranger covers the top of Phil’s hand gently with his, instantly short-circuiting Phil’s brain. Their eyes meet, and Phil realises he’s been staring again. He jerks his head back round towards the stage, desperately trying to focus on the talk again, whilst internally berating himself for being such a weirdo. Which was exactly how he’d scared away almost every previous boyfriend or casual partner he’d ever had. 

The stranger squeezes the top of his hand gently. Phil risks a quick glance back at him out of the corners of his eyes, moving his head as little as possible. The man’s attention is turned back towards the stage, but there’s a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth that wasn’t there before. He starts moving his hand slowly away from Phil’s, but stops just short, leaving his pinkie lying across Phil’s as though anchoring them together in some small way. Phil has no idea if it’s accidental or not. The armrests are so pathetically small, it’s entirely plausible that it’s an accident. He’s frozen still, barely daring to breath, lest he disturbs the stranger in some way; makes him realise Phil is entirely too awkward a human to associate with. Bemoaning his tendency towards overthinking, Phil determinedly fixes his gaze on the speaker and tries hard to tune in. Any other time, he’d probably be really interested, but all he’s aware of is the casual press of a little finger against his.

Eventually, the speaker calls someone else up to the stage, and they begin to wind things down by thanking the audience for their attention and pointing them in the direction of the donations box where they’re raising money for local homeless queer youth.

Once the raucous applause has died down, Phil jumps out of his seat and darts round to the front of the stage, only narrowly avoiding tripping over his own feet in his haste. He can still feel the ghost of the stranger’s hand on his as he pulls his wallet out of his jacket pocket, fishes out a twenty pound note and stuffs it in the donations tin. As he makes his way back to his seat through the small crowd that’s starting to build up behind him, he can see his Pretty Guy having an animated discussion with Mags about what Phil can only assume is the talk they’ve just been listening to. Phil’s eyes meet his as he makes his way back over and Pretty Guy’s face breaks into a wide smile. 

“I was worried for a moment there that you were going to bugger off without saying goodbye!” Pretty Guy exclaims, turning his entire body around to face Phil. 

“Oh no, I’m sorry!” He says, “I just knew if I didn’t run up there and then, I’d only forget. I kind of get easily distracted, and I feel like you’ve been a bit of a distraction for me already today.” He smiles bashfully at the stranger, enjoying watching the blush on his cheeks deepen.

“A good distraction,” he hastily adds, “I’m really really glad I met you. And thank you for inviting me along, that was brilliant.” He jerks a thumb in the direction of the stage, purposefully doesn’t think about the fact that he barely took in a single word. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” The stranger dimples at him. “I know it can be a little intense for some people, but-” he shrugs, “well, if you couldn’t already tell, I’m a bit of an activist.”

“An activist? You? I’d never have guessed it.” Phil teases, bumping their shoulders together. “No, seriously, I think it’s really cool, I think it’s great that you’re so passionate. You obviously care a lot. More people should.” 

Pretty Guy beams at him. Phil feels his stomach do a weird flippy-over thing. He smiles back.

“Thank you, I think so too. The world would be a much better place if more people just cared.” He pauses, takes a breath, then says nonchalantly, “by the way, me and the guys were thinking of going for a couple of drinks, would you maybe want to come along?”

“Oh, like, now?” Phil asks.

“Yeah,” Pretty Guy looks down to the ground for a beat, then lifts his head and locks eyes with Phil, “like now.”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“OK, sure!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! Definitely. Although, I haven’t really eaten since this morning…”

“That’s OK! We can pick up something on the way, or maybe get something once we’re there, the guys are pretty chill, we like to go with the flow.” He seems so eager, Phil can’t remember the last time a stranger was so keen to spend time with him.

They’re halfway out of the auditorium by now, joining the slow-moving queue filing out one by one through the single doors at either end of the long room. 

“It’s not just the guys who are pretty chill you know, bub.” They turn around towards the source of the voice piping up behind them. 

“Bry!” Pretty Guy wraps an arm around her shoulders, giving her a brief one-armed hug. “You know I meant it in a gender-neutral, inclusive way.”

“Yeah, I do. I just like watching the panic in your eyes as you second guess yourself.”

“Oh, fuck off.” 

She gasps, puts a hand to her chest in mock-outrage. “How dare you insult me in this way! What would your mother say!”

“Ah, but you see, Bryony, you’ve not met my mother. Karen would probably just tell you to fuck off too.”

“Animals! The lot of you!” She shakes her head in exasperation. Phil giggles at the two of them. “Anyway, I didn’t come over just to troll you, fun as that undoubtedly is. Ed’s looking for you, he’s just finishing packing up. Something about wanting to discuss _‘the game plan_.’” She punctuates this with finger quotes.

“Oh shit! I completely forgot! We were meant to catch up with the community association after the talk. Fuck. Guys, I’m really sorry, I have to run.” He looks between the two of them for a moment, then puts a hand on Phil’s forearm. “But I’ll meet you there?” 

He looks intently into Phil’s eyes, clearly uncertain. Who would Phil be to back out now, he was in far too deep and the promise of more time with this man more than made up for the fact that he’d have to subject himself to some potentially awkward social interaction.

“Definitely,” Phil says, trying to reassure him with a small smile.

“Great,” he breathes a visible sigh of relief, “Thank you. Bry’ll look after you, you guys will get along fine. Sorry, I’ve really got to run, but I’ll be right there as soon as I can!”

And then he’s off before Phil can barely blink, weaving in between the stragglers and dashing up to the stage.

Bryony turns to him then, cocking an eyebrow up at him, “Well. Since my very rude friend failed to introduce us because he’s been too busy making eyes at you for the past hour, I’m Bryony.” She holds out a hand.

“Phil.” Phil laughs, reaching out to take it.

“Nice to meet you, Phil.” She smiles warmly. “I’ll apologise on his behalf for just abandoning you here in a sea of gay nerds you don’t know.”

“That’s OK, fellow gay nerd over here, hi.”

They exchange small talk together as they continue out of the building and Phil finds himself genuinely laughing along with her and appreciating her dry sense of humour. He’s soon introduced to the “whole motley crew” as Bryony describes them, and despite immediately forgetting everyone’s names as soon as he hears them, he’s instantly, unquestioningly welcomed right into the fray with open arms. Uni days long gone, Phil had almost forgotten what it’s like to be thrown into the midst of so many extroverts at once, but finds himself rather enjoying getting swept up in the ease of it all; their excitement and laughter contagious, somehow calming his initial meeting-new-people-nerves. 

The bar is only round the corner really, but somehow it takes them the best part of thirty minutes to actually get there as they meander back through the pop-up stalls still lining the street, even though the light has long-since faded. Phil sticks closely to Bryony’s side, keen to avoid getting swept away in the throng, and she seems perfectly happy to mother him a bit, filling him in on the running in-jokes and including him in the conversation. 

On a bit of a whim, Phil gets completely side-tracked by fleecy jumpers in a pastel rainbow spectrum at one of the stalls and can’t resist running his hands over the soft wool again and again. The heavily tattooed guy running the stall tells him that they’re all homemade by his Nana and her friends at the bingo hall, and that’s all the information Phil needs before he’s succumbed to the purchase, and with only the tiniest bit of goading from Bryony he’s soon whipping off his jacket and pulling on the cosy jumper underneath, grinning from ear to ear and feeling rather pleased with himself. 

They hurry to catch up with the rest of the group as they finalise their own little purchases - Phil finds himself tempted again by the vast array of books Mags has just been perusing, but manages to restrain himself, remembering that his bookshelf at home is already stacked at least two books deep in places thanks to his eternal obsession with horror and thrillers.

Finally they all pile into the bar, grabbing a large booth at the back of the room. Phil slides in last next to Bryony, feeling slightly out of place and on edge. What is he doing here, having basically glued himself to the side of a random stranger whose name he doesn’t even know? A stranger who now isn’t even here anymore. He wonders wildly whether someone might have slipped something into his tea at the publishing house earlier to cause him to behave so spontaneously and so out of character. His stomach feels a little tight, social anxiety on top of an empty stomach never a good combination. He subtlety folds his arms in front of his abdomen and presses down slightly, hoping to ward off hunger rumblings. The bar is pretty dead so far, it’s barely 6pm on a Tuesday, and Phil has a feeling this isn’t the sort of place that does much food beyond the obligatory portion of nachos. He wishes they’d been able to get food on the way. He wishes Pretty Guy would show up quickly. Maybe then he could awkwardly make his excuses without seeming too rude.

One of the guys - Phil thinks his name was Declan? Or maybe Dylan? - is going round the group taking drinks orders, and Phil is torn between the stodgiest option to try and line his stomach a little, or the most alcoholic option to take the edge off his sudden anxiety flare up. He’s still dithering when his turn comes and he pauses for a beat too long, and that in itself makes the decision for him. Drinking as a coping mechanism is not Phil’s usual style, but then, he reasons, neither is spontaneously tagging along on an entirely unplanned night out with a bunch of complete strangers after the bizarre high of a successful publishing meeting. And all just because a pretty boy asked him to. 

“Good choice,” Bryony smiles at him encouragingly, “that one’s my favourite.”

It takes Phil a moment to realise she’s talking about the drink. 

“Oh, good!” Phil says with entirely too much enthusiasm, feeling like an idiot as he struggles to land on a not hideously awkward topic of conversation. “So… Do you guys come here a lot?” He cringes inwardly at himself.

“Yeah,” Bryony replies, unfazed by his awkwardness, “I guess it’s kind of become our local recently. Dan loves it here; cheap drinks, cheesy gay music, and they let us use the backroom for free for meetings sometimes.”

Phil has no idea who Dan is, and feels way too awkward to ask. 

“That sounds great!” He tries to sound less queasy and more enthusiastic than he feels. “So, you guys are like proper activists then?”

She laughs. “I suppose that depends on your definition of a ‘proper activist,’” she teases, making her fingers into quote marks.

“You know, grassroots movement, organising rallies and fundraising, speeches. Seems like you’ve got it all covered really.”

She shrugs. “I guess so, seems a lot more grand and organised and official when you put it like that. Dan does most of the organising, I just like to tag along for the socials mostly.” 

Fortunately Phil’s saved from responding by the return of Declan/Dylan and their tray of drinks. Phil grabs his own eagerly as soon as it’s placed in front of him and takes a long pull on the metal straw. The combination of alcohol and sugar is a welcome shock to the system and Phil instantly feels miles better.

“This is delicious!” He hums to Bryony, already taking a second sip.

“Right?” She knocks her glass against his. “Cheers to that!”

After that, Phil finds himself quickly relaxing back into the conversation. He reasons with himself that it’s all part of his _try new things_ resolution and there’s nothing quite like liquid courage to loosen the tongue. 

He’s well on the way to finishing his second drink, laughing hard at a joke, when someone slides into the seat next to him. He looks up, startled. Warm brown eyes meet his, face framed by fluffy dark curls, and Phil’s face immediately breaks into a delighted grin.

“Hi!” Phil practically squeals at him in his tipsy excitement.

“Hello again.” Pretty Guy smiles back at him, looking slightly bashful. “Sorry I’m so late, the community association is full of really sweet old biddies, but they never stop talking! I picked this up for you on the way though, I remembered you said you hadn’t eaten.”

He presents Phil with a large white box. The smell hits him first and he immediately makes grabby hands, eyes wide, because it’s _pizza_ , oh my god, this perfect strange boy has brought him _pizza_. 

“It’s just margarita, I didn’t know what toppings you like, or whether you’re a vegetarian - oh shit, you’re not vegan are you? Oh my god.”

Phil just grins and shoves half a slice in his mouth in response. “You’re my hero,” he says earnestly around a mouthful of cheese, “Thank you. Are you sure they won’t mind us eating it in here?”

“Oh yeah, Nathan’s super chill ‘cause we always spend shit loads in here.”

Phil laughs around his mouthful of melted cheesy goodness. He offers the box to Pretty Guy, who takes a slice with a pleased smile. The moan he lets out around his mouthful is pure filth and Phil’s face immediately flushes with heat as his mind spirals off into the gutter. 

“Sorry,” the man grimaces, “I’m a bit of a loudmouth in literally every way really.” 

Phil blinks once and stuffs the other half of his pizza slice in his mouth.

“Oh my god, where’s _my_ pizza, you arsehole?!” Bryony turns away from the rest of the group, happily well on their way to merriment. 

Phil snags another slice before dutifully passing the box over. 

“Hey, hey! Who said you could have any? I watched you eat lunch before the rally!” Pretty Guy teases.

“Yeah. 3 hours ago! Some friend you are.”

“Nooooo, I love you, Bry!” 

And then Phil suddenly finds himself rather violently sandwiched between the two of them, as Pretty Guy swoops in right across him and tries to envelope her in a bear hug, which quickly turns into a tackle as she makes to shove him away. They both end up sprawled across Phil’s lap, heads resting on the table and laughing so loudly that Phil’s almost worried they’re going to get chucked out. He lifts the pizza box above them, victorious.

“All the more for me then!” he laughs. They both whip their heads straight up off the table and start loudly protesting as Phil munches on another slice with one hand while still holding the box above their heads with the other. Pretty Guy has the unfair advantage of height on his side and manages to swipe another slice easily, but then Bryony screeches at him, finally alerting the rest of the table to her plight. Not a moment later, the pizza box is yanked out of Phil’s hand and thanks are shouted as it’s swiftly passed around and emptied of its contents. Phil finishes his last bite with relish, then flops back down onto the bench, laughter erupting out of his chest. 

“Well, that was good while it lasted.” Pretty Guy is laughing too. “I’m amazed at your pizza eating skills, three slices before these animals clocked it is a serious achievement.”

“Why thank you,” Phil puts a hand to his chest, “Pizza-eating is my favourite pastime. I practice very regularly.” And then they’re giggling together again. Phil has never heard anything quite like the laugh on this guy. It’s an obnoxiously loud honk, and yet he’s so unapologetic and un-self conscious about it, it’s obvious that there’s real genuine joy and delight in it. He doesn’t hold a single part of himself back, and Phil is all over him. It’s infectious, and Phil can’t help but be drawn in. 

“Nice jumper by the way, it really suits you.” Pretty Guy says softly, hand outstretched as though to brush his fingers over the soft woolen cuff, but he seems to think better of it and stops just short. Phil wishes he hadn’t.

“Thanks, I couldn’t resist the knitted by Nanas story. It was like the old Shreddies advert all over again.”

This just sets Pretty Guy off, he leans right into Phil’s space as he laughs and Phil’s breath hitches in his throat mid-giggle.

Pretty Guy fetches them both another round, teasing Phil for his sweet, fruity taste in alcohol - or liquid diabetes, as he dubs it. Phil forgets any last remnants of his social anxiety. He forgets that he’s currently sat in a gay bar full of gay activists and that he’s chatting up an insanely fit gay stranger, who’s miles out of his league surely - and whose name he’s entirely too awkward to ask by this point - and indulges himself. Indulges every part of himself that has always wanted this on some level, yet had always found some sort of excuse, some kind of scared way to talk himself out of taking the plunge to meet new people and commit himself unabashedly to so openly supporting and working for a cause he so desperately believed in. Writing his book had been a form of that self-expression, it had been so much more than the toe he’d dipped in the water with the LGBTQ+ society at York. Writing had been jumping in the deep end of the pool and thrashing about until he broke the surface and learnt to swim. It had been playing at something he knows how to do, knows he has a talent for, and knows he can achieve. But surrounding himself politically like this, openly, this was much more like opening the final floodgates somehow. 

They talk and talk for what feels like hours. About what the group does, protests, rallies, events, socials; they talk about Phil’s hopeful trilogy of books, and Pretty Guy seems so fascinated, so keen to read them that Phil ends up promising him an advance copy -”you have to sign it for me, I won’t take no for an answer!” - Phil loses track of how many rounds he’s drunk, but swaps the alcohol out for water once his head starts spinning every time he gazes into Pretty Guy’s dark eyes. The rest of the group has long since filed out onto the dance floor, and it turns out 9pm on a Tuesday night is still pretty wild in this neck of the woods.

After much protesting about two left feet, his clumsiness, and his rule of only dancing to cheesy 90’s pop, Pretty Guy finally manages to pull Phil out onto the dancefloor with him when the DJ starts blasting out Britney Spears’ Toxic. They spin each other round like silly kids at some school disco, belting out the words at the top of their lungs and collapsing into a fit of giggles all over one another. 

When Pretty Guy pulls him close as the song changes, laughter suddenly wiped from their faces, Phil’s never been so sure of anything else in his life. With surprising dexterity considering the amount of alcohol buzzing through his veins he brings a soft hand to Pretty Guy’s neck, questioning, tentative. Phil feels an answering hand on his own waist pulling him closer still. So Phil closes the gap between them. 

“What’s your name?” Phil blurts out as soon as they break apart. 

Pretty Guy hides his giggles in the space between Phil’s neck and his shoulder, but Phil can still hear the obnoxious honk above the loud music. “I was wondering when you’d ask,” he laughs, “it’s Dan.”

“Dan.” Phil says, breathless. He leans in again, kissing the beginning of another laugh right off Dan’s face.

Pretty Guy - _Dan_ \- is flushed again by the time they break apart, a deep red warming his cheeks. Phil brings his hands up to cup them, thumbs rubbing gentle circles over and over. Dan’s dimples are out in full force as he looks down bashfully, then up into Phil’s eyes, gazing up at him through dark lashes.

“You haven’t told me your name yet,” he murmurs.

“Oh!” Phil giggles. “Sorry. You’re just really pretty, and I’m just very, very gay. And also socially inept, apparently.” He leans in for another gentle press of soft lips on his own. He feels Dan’s shallow exhale across his face, breathless himself, as they pull back. 

“You’re adorable.” Dan says.

“Phil. My name, I mean. It’s Phil.”

“Phil.” Dan breaths. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

They giggle again together, swaying along gently to the soundtrack of the Spice Girls playing in the background, both feeling deep in their sappy little hearts, that this might just be the start of something very special.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Come and say hi on my dnp sideblog on tumblr @curlyswriting


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